The Boy and the Ring
by Hoshi-tachi
Summary: Rituals are delicate things. So are Dark Lords. Harry learns this the hard way, along with the true meaning of fellowship.
1. The Boy and the Ritual

**Title:** The Boy and the Ring  
**Author:** hoshi-tachi/Lachesis (non-ffnet)  
**Category:** Book Crossovers  
**Rating:** T, possibly edging on M

* * *

Harry bit back a cry of pain as Wormtail tightened the knots even further, trapping his arms at his sides and making it hard for him to breathe. Forcing his mouth open, the older wizard stuffed a length of black cloth into the boy's mouth with trembling fingers. Then he rose and hurried out of sight, leaving Harry tied to the crumbling headstone unable to even turn his head to follow him. 

Cedric's body lay crumbled perhaps twenty feet away, the Triwizard Cup tipped over on its side a bit past him. Closer, almost close enough for Harry to reach out a foot and touch it was the bundle Wormtail had been carrying. It was moving now, whatever was inside the swaddling clothes twitching restlessly, and as Harry watched a particularly vigorous movement sparked a wave of pain through his scar. He did cry out, now, a cry strangled by the gag, and tried to struggle against his bonds.

Something brushing against his foot garnered another cry and even fiercer struggles as the young wizard saw an enormous snake glide through the grass. It circled around the grave, Harry following it with frightened eyes; looking elsewhere, he missed Wormtail's return until the man and the bath-sized stone cauldron he was pushing were nearly on top of him. Pettigrew's face was flushed in the darkness, and he was breathing hard when he at last had the cauldron positioned at the base of the grave.

Whatever was inside the bundle was thrashing now, as though trying to break free. Harry drew his legs up, trying to get as far away as possible from the thing that continued to send needle-sharp throbs of agony through his skull. Earlier he'd wondered what was inside; now he'd give anything in his possession, from his beloved Firebolt to his father's invisibility cloak, not to ever see what it was.

Wormtail pulled out his wand and waved it towards the cauldron, and crimson flames leapt from the ground beneath it. It didn't take long for whatever the liquid inside was to heat; Harry knew it wasn't water, because as it boiled angry red sparks began to appear amongst the billowing steam. "_Hurry_!" that cold, whispery voice that had ordered Cedric's death shrieked.

Wormtail cringed even worse than Harry did. "It is ready, Master."

_Master?_ Harry thought with a dawning horror. No, it couldn't be…

"_Now_…" the voice ordered, and the traitor bent to pull the shielding clothes away from the bundle. Harry's yell of horror was again muffled.

It wasn't a child. It wasn't _anything_ like a child, except perhaps in size, which had been Harry's first thought. His next was _demon_, as its eyes glowed red in a serpent-like face, its skin covered in black and red things that weren't quite scales. It made him gag and nearly choke on the cloth in his mouth, as Wormtail reached down to pick it up and it curled its sticklike arms around his neck. The wizard's hood fell back, and the expression on his face matched Harry's revulsion perfectly. He carried the _thing_ over to the cauldron and lowered it in, until it sank beneath the surface.

And all the while, the burning in Harry's scar only intensified.

"_Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son_!" Wormtail chanted with a trembling voice, pointing his wand towards the grave at Harry's feet. The boy squirmed away best as he could as the ground split, and a fine, pale dust rose up into the air. Wormtail beckoned it over to the cauldron, and as the dust sifted down into the liquid its contents shifted from colorless to an unwholesome blue.

The older wizard had begun to shake, now, as he pulled a silvery, rune-covered dagger from within his robes. "_Flesh…of the servant, w-willing given_," he stuttered, holding a hand out over the cauldron and holding the blade awkwardly to its wrist, "_you will… revive your master…_"

Harry realized just in time what he intended to do, and closed his eyes, but nothing could stop him from hearing Wormtail's scream of agony and the following _plop_ as his severed hand landed in the cauldron. When he dared to look again, the potion had turned a bright, searing red, and sparking ever the more.

Sobbing in pain, Wormtail crawled toward Harry, pressing the bleeding stump of his right hand into his chest as the other clutched almost desperately to the dagger. He reached for Harry's arm, only to be stymied by the ropes still cocooning him to the headstone. A quick slash with the bloody knife severed half a dozen, baring the boy's skin to the blade.

The gag stifled yet another cry as Wormtail slashed deeply into his arm, then dropped the knife and fumbled inside his robes. He pulled out a little glass vial that he pushed against the skin of Harry's elbow, collecting a portion of the blood streaming down the wizard's arm. Staggering to his feet, the rat animagus lurched back to the cauldron.

"_B-blood of the enemy, forcibly… taken, you will resurrect… your foe_," Wormtail chanted one last time, his speech almost slurred with shock. He dumped Harry's blood into the potion, turning it from red to a blazing white that burned Harry's eyes.

The Boy-Who-Lived tried to turn his face away from the sight, and was amazed to find that he could. The ropes had loosened, unraveling away from the few Wormtail had cut, and he raised his bleeding arm to tear at them. He almost couldn't manage it; the ropes were still fairly tight, but the blood trickling down in a stream that would have been worrying if he could think clearly past the pain in his scar lubricated the limb until he could slip it free.

It took only a few moments after that to wrestle free of the ropes. Harry stood on shaking, nearly boneless legs, unnoticed by Wormtail, whose attention was split between the hissing cauldron and his stump. The boy's first instinct was to run, but before he could take more than a step away his conscience began to scream.

He couldn't let them get away with it. He couldn't let… _him_… return when there was any chance Harry could stop it. Not with poor, dead Cedric lying there, a silent witness to the atrocities of the ritual. With a quiet sob, Harry ran for the cauldron.

Wormtail wasn't physically strong by anyone's definition, but he was fully-grown compared to Harry's half, and he'd had trouble moving the cauldron into place. When Harry first gave the cauldron his best rugby tackle it barely did more than shiver. He threw himself against it again, and again, as Wormtail shouted furiously from behind for him to stop. Harry crouched and pressed against the cauldron from below, sobbing in pain as the flames licked at his hands and clothing. It began to tip…

He couldn't have managed it, if at that moment Wormtail hadn't thrown himself at the younger wizard to pull him away, and so added his own weight to Harry's. The giant stone cauldron fell in slow motion, spilling out its contents onto the ground as the traitor howled out a protest. The flames leapt up, briefly, then died, and at first Harry thought it was himself screaming those shrill, penetrating cries of pain.

But no… on the far side of the cauldron the tiny, demonic caricature of the Dark Lord was screaming as the heat it was no longer protected from by the magic of the ritual cooked it alive.

"_NO_! _Master_!" Wormtail shouted, as Harry fell to his knees and started crawling closer, needing to finish it, _end_ it once and for all... "_Get _away_ from him_!"

He struck Harry at very nearly the same instant the magic the wizard had called into being with the interrupted ritual rose to do his bidding. Harry sprawled on the ground, the breath knocked out of him by the wizard sitting on his chest. He had just enough time to reach up and try to push Wormtail off of him, and feel the smooth handle of a wand in his hand, before a crimson, shimmering wave enveloped him, pouring inside him and burning, burning, burning…

It was with relief, and even a little elation that he let go of consciousness, as the ritual's magic hurled the Boy-Who-Lived _away_.

-

The only sounds he heard were of horse hooves on the trail and the muted jingle of Larsk's tack. No one spoke, the members of the twelve-man patrol each too disturbed by that morning's news to break the silence that had held all day. Now the sunlight was slanting long shadows to their right, deepening Lebennin's endless green fields to emerald.

A horseman trotted past, and a moment later another came back from that direction; the changing of the point guard. The young lord nodded his approval, sitting up straighter on his steed to glance back over his little company. They rode two-by-two down the trail, an arrangement that would have to change later on when they reached areas not so heavily traveled by the people of Pelargir. They'd only left the harbor city that morning, and as of yet none of the guardsmen were showing signs of wear.

They'd stop for the night soon. The news from Pelargir was worrying, but hardly urgent.

"Sir!" the call from the point guard broke into his thoughts. "There's something here you should see."

Frowning, he nudged Larsk into a trot. As he neared the point guard he could see the disturbance that had prompted the call. The knee-high grass to the side of the path had been flattened, crushed in a trail going back into the field two or three lengths deep. At the far end lay a crumpled figure in black, as though whoever it was had been thrown violently from a horse, and rolled.

"Anador, with me," he ordered, dismounting and loosening his sword in its sheath. "The rest of you, be ready."

The body didn't stir as they approached, nor when he nudged it with his boot. It breathed, though, so with a warning glance back at his men he knelt and rolled it onto its back, revealing a boy just beginning to approach manhood. He wore thick, heavily scorched dark robes, and on his slack face was perched an odd construction of wire and glass. With the way his clothing was charred, it looked as though he'd been standing directly in the flames, but the grasses around him weren't so much as singed.

A breath hissed from between pursed lips as he noticed the unconscious boy's hands. They were badly burned, the skin already beginning to peel away. Dried blood covered his right arm, and fresh was seeping sluggishly from a deep cut that looked to have been cauterized and then cracked open again. Despite the deep and unquestionably painful searing, his left hand was clenched tightly around a carved stick of a pale wood that might have been pine or yew.

"Sir?" Anador asked quietly, the older guardsman letting his hand fall from his sword. He had a son only a bit younger than the stranger. "Do you recognize the lad?"

The rider shook his head. "No. And I've never seen the like of his clothing. He's in great need of a healer, however," he said, noting the paleness of the boy's skin and how his breaths were shallow. He rose to his feet. "Larsk!"

The well-trained horse was by his side in a blink, and its rider carefully slipped his arms beneath the boy. His burden groaned as he was lifted in front of the saddle, but didn't wake, which was undoubtedly a boon. "We'll make camp under that stand of trees," he ordered, pointing with one hand at a copse a few minutes away while the other steadied the boy.

"But milord, there's still an hour of daylight left," on of the younger guardsmen, Kelentor, protested. "We could make another good four or five miles before sundown."

"And we'll need that time to care for his wounds," Faramir, second son of the Steward of Gondor replied, climbing up behind the boy and wrapping a careful arm around his chest.

"We'll make camp now, and see what the morning brings."

* * *

A/N: I originally wasn't supposed to post this until I had five complete chapters written, but I didn't want everyone to think I was dead or had stopped writing. Things in RL have been busy lately; on top of the usual distractions of writer's block and my addiction to the MMORPG known as MapleStory (anyone else play? I'm in Broa...), I finished my first year of college with about a 3.5 GPA and started my first ever paid job. I'm currently trying to finish chapters for Know Thyself, Storm Child and Lacrymae Rerum, so wish me luck. 

Oh, and no real pairings planned for this story. The possible, mythical sequel is crystallizing around one, though.

Disclaimer: I own nothing that pertains to the worlds of either Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. I especially don't own recognizable quotes from either of them.


	2. The Boy and the Captain

**Warnings and Disclaimers:**One small edit on the previous chapter. Details in the A/N.

* * *

There was little they could do for the boy, beyond flush his wounds clean with water and lightly bandage his burns. Faramir ordered a guard kept on him at all times, though he didn't seem to be dangerous, given that he hadn't so much as an eating knife on him. The wire contraption he had found to have collapsible limbs, and he placed it within his saddlebags, along with the stick they'd had to pry from the boy's hand.

By morning, the lad had done little more than twitch a bit in his sleep; when his rest had gone from unconsciousness to slumber the Gondorian didn't know, but Faramir knew it meant his condition was improving. He ordered Anador to take the boy up on his horse, knowing the guardsman would make sure nothing happened to, or because of him.

It was only as they were stopping for a brief, hurried lunch that his eyelids flickered and he moaned in pain. Faramir's head turned at the sound, and he strode over to where Anador was making the boy comfortable with a bedroll beneath his head. "Bring a water-skin," he ordered, crouching down. A thought passed through his mind. "And one of the wineskins." They had no true painkillers with them, but hopefully a few swallows of wine would dull their guest's pain.

Assuming he was a guest and not an enemy, of course, but Faramir doubted that anyone at the boy's age could truly be considered an enemy.

They waited in silence for the boy to wake up more fully, an event heralded by further groans and twitching as the pain in his limbs registered. Soon enough, though, green, pain-watery eyes were peering blearily back at them, and their owner tried to sit up.

"Easy, lad," Anador told him, putting a hand on his chest and keeping him down without much effort. "You'll not be dancing just yet."

The boy's head swiveled to look at him, his face full of confusion. He tried to speak, coughed once, and then for the first time they heard him speak. And what he said...

Was utterly incomprehensible.

"What language is that?" Faramir wondered out loud. He'd never heard it before in his life, though in sound and cadence it had something in it of Westron, and even Rohirric. The boy turned to him, now, his confusion joined by a touch of fear.

The guardsman shook his head. "Not one I know, milord," he answered. "Doesn't much look like he knows Westron, either."

Without much hope, Faramir tried those few words of Elvish he knew, though he doubted what he said made any sense when strung together. The boy showed no signs of recognition, though, only spouting off a few more meaningless words in response. Faramir swore to himself, not bothering to keep it quiet. Without a language in common, there was no way they could question the stranger to find out where he'd come from, and what he was doing inside Gondor's borders.

The Steward wasn't going to be at all happy about that.

Holding in a sigh, the young lord unbound the water-skin and held it to the boy's lips. The lad tried to take it himself in reflex, only to cry out in pain as he moved his hands. He stared down at them, bewildered, until suddenly recollection passed over his face and he looked back up at the two men so quickly they heard his neck pop.

They could no more understand the ensuing wave of panicked babble than they could before, but one word sounded often enough that Faramir picked up on it. "Vol-de-mort?" he repeated carefully, and heard his confusion in his voice.

The boy stared at him for a long moment with wide eyes, and then slumped as a great tension went out of him. He said something, very quietly and with much relief, and then looked back at them with a new curiosity.

Faramir gave him a tiny smile. "Faramir," he said, gesturing towards himself, "son of Denethor."

The boy started to repeat all of that, only to be waved to a stop. "Faramir," the man said again, cutting off his patronymic this time, and got an understanding nod in return.

"Anador, son of Hanadin," the guardsman added at his superior's pointed glance.

"Anador," the boy murmured, nodding again. "Harry," he said simply, starting to gesture towards himself and then subsiding with a wince.

Reminded, Faramir leaned forward again with the water-skin. Harry drank docilely, making no protest when the man pulled it back to keep him from foundering. "We'll need to ride faster, if we want to get him to the healers before infection sets in," he thought out loud, and out of the corner of his eye Faramir saw Anador nodding his graying head in agreement.

He started to rise, only to pause as Harry said something, sounding alarmed. As he turned back to him, the boy grimaced and slowly lifted his bandaged hands to his face, resting them above his eyes. He asked a question, and Faramir stared for a moment before he realized what he wanted.

Harry smiled gratefully at him when Faramir slipped the contraption he'd pulled from his saddlebags onto the boy's face. Almost immediately his eyes, which had seemed very unfocused all the time since he had woken up, focused on Faramir, studying him carefully. The green eyes, now looking surprisingly larger than they had before, turned to Anador, and then the two men had to help him sit up before he collapsed as he looked over their small company.

All of whom were watching in interest. "Who, I wonder, is keeping watch?" Faramir asked mildly, eyeing them with more than a trace of impatience. Immediately, three or four men turned their backs, scanning the grasslands around them while the others returned to their meals.

He nodded with satisfaction and rose to his feet. "Look after him until we reach Minas Tirith," he ordered. "Care for him, but keep him near you at all times."

Anador bowed his head. "Yes, sir." He accepted the skins Faramir held out for him and held the one full of wine to the boy's lips. Faramir could hear him urging the boy to drink as he walked away.

No, his father wasn't going to be happy at all...

**----**

Eighteen hours.

Eighteen. That was how long it took, to bring them to this point. An hour to realize something was even wrong in the first place. Not quite another, to scour the Maze and find there were no traces of two Champions, and to realize the Cup was gone as well. A third hour, to bring an expert from the Ministry and for him to decide someone had turned the Cup itself into a Portkey that whisked two of Hogwarts' students away.

And then fifteen, _fifteen_, hours spent painstakingly tracing the Portkey's trail, while anything at all might have been happening to Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory. Until the trail led them here, to a graveyard just outside a small muggle village lit obscenely by the noon-time sun, and to young Diggory's long-cooled body.

Amos Diggory had been led away by a sympathetic Minerva, his face long and drawn, but not yet far enough through shock for there to be tears. Albus Dumbledore felt for the man, but was far more concerned that the only sign of the Boy-Who-Lived was his wand, discarded near his classmate's body. Under numerous glares, Aurors cast _Priori Incantatem_ on Harry's wand, and quickly declared it was not the wand that had cast the Killing Curse that had ended Diggory's life.

They could only guess that wand was the one that had been used by Peter Pettigrew, who had been half-dead by the time they arrived; only his quick thinking in thrusting the stump of his hand into the flames had kept him from bleeding to death. They couldn't know for sure, though, because it was no more to be found than was Harry Potter. He could only hope that, wherever Harry was, he at least had Pettigrew's wand to defend himself with.

Assuming, of course, that the boy was alive, but Dumbledore refused to believe otherwise. It just didn't seem right, that Harry not survive at last destroying his greatest enemy.

Yet again, the old wizard gazed over at the multitude of Aurors and specialists who were buzzing around the remains of the homunculus Voldemort had used to house his soul. Minister Fudge had already rushed to meet with the press, declaring that the Boy-Who-Lived had once again defeated You-Know-Who, and then befallen an unknown fate. Questioning Pettigrew had brought to light that much, as well as Sirius Black's innocence, but he very much doubted that Sirius would be enjoying his freedom after the situation that had brought it about.

Dumbledore had used Legilimency on Pettigrew as well, well-hidden from the Aurors around him, and as soon as he returned to Hogwarts planned to place the stolen memories within his Pensieve. They would be invaluable when they began their search for Harry Potter. Severus would have to analyze the potion Voldemort had used, once he recovered from his collapse, right around the estimated time of the Dark Lord's demise.

The Headmaster's thoughts derailed ever so slightly at the unpleasant reminder that Alastor Moody had collapsed as well, and after half an hour unconscious in the Hospital Wing had revealed himself to be Bartemius Crouch, Jr. under Polyjuice. They were still searching for the real Moody, but at least they need not look far for the wizard who had charmed the Triwizard Cup.

With a weary sigh, the aging wizard shook his head and stepped away from the gaggle of Aurors. "Auror Williamson," he hailed the Auror in charge of the site, "there's nothing more I can do here. My school is undoubtedly in chaos at the moment, and I should be there to take care of my students."

The pony-tailed Auror that Dumbledore vaguely remember to have been a Gryffindor nodded, looking only a little less stunned than most of those present. "Of course, Headmaster. Oh, sir?" he called, as Dumbledore began to walk away. "Minister Fudge left a message for you. He'll be sending someone to inform Potter's family, and hoped you might accompany them."

The Headmaster nodded. "Of course."

**----**

Frodo leaned his cheek against the wooden door, feeling its coolness as he watched Gandalf's patched grey robes fade into the night. He needed it; the sensation lent him a bit of stability to counter the whirlwind his life had become in the last hour.

"D'you think he meant it, sir?" Sam asked from behind him. "Things being so dire and all, I mean."

The Hobbit's lips tightened as a thrill of dread curdled in his guts. "You know, Sam, I think he did." He fell silent for a long moment. "And what's worse, I think he was trying not to frighten us too badly."

Frodo heard the gardener move to his side. "...Well, once we reach the Elves they'll be able to handle things, won't they Mister Frodo? The Elves can do anything!"

A smile briefly pulled at his lips. Bless Sam and his love of tales and all things Elvish. Downright un-Hobbitlike, but then Frodo himself had never quite managed proper Hobbitness himself, being raised mostly by the first Hobbit to travel so far from the Shire in centuries.

It was a very brief smile, though. "You'd best get home and pack, Sam," he said quietly. "Anything you think we'll need, and then return here. We leave for Bree before dawn."

* * *

A/N: My thanks to **WingsOfFate**, who pointed a blunder I made regarding Wormtail's (Voldemort's) wand. It's been fixed now, and inspired a few more plot twists later on in the story... I'm still working on some of my other stories; I swear I'll update Know Thyself if it kills me... Er, I can count on one of you to resurrect me if that happens, right?

Hugs to all reviewers.

* * *

11 June, 2007


	3. The Boy and the Steward

**Warnings and Disclaimers: **I think I've done more research for this story than for any other. Reap the benefits and either ignore my errors, or point them out with the correct information, please.

* * *

By the time the white ramparts of Minas Tirith came into view the next day, the setting sun was already painting them in hues of pink and gold. That made it no less beautiful, however, and Faramir felt a thrill of satisfaction at the gasp he heard from the boy sitting in front of Anador on the next horse. Stealing a glance at their guest, he found Harry staring at the citadel, with both wonder and dismay on his face.

Before the man could wonder at the reasons behind such an expression, the call of a horn rang out as Minas Tirith's sentinels spotted their party. Faramir pulled his own horn from his saddlebag and blew through it twice; the two-toned song would tell the guards they were friend, not foe, and they would have the gates open and ready by the time they rode up.

Recognizing their home, the horses sped up into an unbidden canter. Faramir nearly reined Larsk back in, but then decided he had the right of it. There was no reason in delaying their return, however slightly, merely because he hated the feeling of being caged within the White City, constantly beneath the cloud of his father's disapproval.

The guards hailed them with amiable shouts as they passed through the enormous gates, which swung ponderously shut behind them. There weren't many townsfolk on the streets, now that dusk was upon the City, and the small party was able to travel quickly up the road that wandered side to side, passing without notable incident all the way through the fifth level. Once they'd reached the sixth, Faramir quietly ordered Anador to carry his charge to the Houses of Healing, set back off the main roadway. The guardsman saluted and bowed as well as he could, with Harry in the saddle in front of him, and turned his horse.

The rest continued on to the stables, where Faramir dismounted and let a stableman lead Larsk away. He himself continued on, ignoring the temptation to change out of his sweat-stained clothing before his audience with the Steward as another attempt at delay tactics. He could see no way in which he might have handled the situation with Harry differently, but he had little doubt that his father would be able to find one and point it out. At length.

Sighing, the young Captain passed close enough to the Dead Tree to stroke a hand along its pale bark, a habit from his childhood he'd never been able to break. The Tree had always been a reminder to the boy that the stories of glory past his tutors filled his head with had really happened; standing beneath the ancient Tree that had witnessed them all was to feel the past become present once more. And it was said that on the day the King set foot in Minas Tirith, the Dead Tree would bloom once more…

Faramir shook his head, banishing his thoughts. There were no more Gondorian Kings; the line had ended with King Earnur's death. There were only the Stewards, now…

And the current Steward would be most unhappy with him if he were any later. Even more so than he would have been already.

The first thing one always saw when stepping into the Tower of Ecthelion was the great throne of the long-gone Kings; only then would you see the smaller, rather plain throne of black stone at the foot of the dais, where Steward Denethor sat. His shrewd brown eyes, never quite losing their hint of suspicion even when regarding their own flesh and blood, followed Faramir as he approached and knelt, resting his fist over his heart.

"Captain," the Steward said formally, gesturing for him to stand. "You bring word from Pelargir?"

Faramir nodded. "Yes, my lord. There have been several attacks on trade ships by Corsairs in the last year, many more than they have seen in years past. There have been only very rare encounters with the Haradrim, however, and those only with small parties."

"I see…" The crow's feet around Denethor's eyes creased as he pondered. "This will be ill for us, I have no doubt. Perhaps… but we shall see." He shook his head, turning his gaze back to Faramir. "Was there anything else?"

To the Steward's obvious surprise, Faramir nodded. "Yes. During our return, we found a boy injured and unconscious by the trail. His circumstances were… unusual, so we brought him with us. When he woke, we were able to learn his name is Harry, but nothing else."

Denethor sat up straight on his throne. "He would not tell you?" he growled, irritation set deep in his words. "He dares to remain silent? Where is he now?"

"I… I ordered him taken to the Houses of Healing so his wounds might be treated," the Captain replied. What else could he have done?

For an instant, there was pure anger on Denethor's face as he looked at his errant son. "That is unacceptable," he said coldly. "He should have been brought to me immediately. Guardsman!"

One of the men-at-arms guarding the entrance doors, who had determinedly been ignoring the dressing down of one of his commanders, quickly saluted. "My lord?"

"Go to the Houses of Healing and bring the boy back here. And send someone to inform the Tower Warden that Captain Faramir has returned and that his presence is required," Denethor ordered.

Faramir opened his mouth to protest, and hastily shut it again as the anger in his father's eyes grew. With the state Denethor was in, it would do no good to argue that this was pointless, given that the boy Harry didn't speak or understand Westron; but until he saw the situation for himself, Faramir knew the Steward wouldn't listen.

**-**

The man with the beard just beginning to gray- Anador, Harry reminded himself, strange a name as it was- dismounted first and then reached up for Harry. The wizard flushed in mortification, but knew that with his hands the way they were, the only way he could get down off the horse himself would be to fall. And that would be even more embarrassing than being helped off, and a lot more painful, so he held out his arms to be grabbed.

They were in the courtyard of some of the most beautiful gardens Harry had ever seen. Around the edges of the courtyard were small buildings made of the same pale stone as the rest of the amazing city he was in, the one Faramir had called Minas Tirith. Pillars and arches that wouldn't have been out of place in the Mediterranean connected each of the buildings, but rather than reassuring him with their familiarity, they only reminded him of how very far he was from home.

An older woman wearing gray robes and a wimple came out of the nearest building and greeted Anador warmly, before turning her steady gaze on Harry. She spent only the barest of seconds studying his face, before her eyes went to the bandages on his hands, and the next thing Harry knew, she had him by the elbow and was leading him into the building.

Inside was a bed with white linens that she immediately sat him down on, speaking soothingly all the while, a table, and two chairs. An open window looking out into the gardens let in a soft breeze that smelled heavily of flowers.

He'd gotten used enough to the constant pain in his hands that he was starting to be able to ignore it, but when the woman took one and began to unwrap the bandage, the wave of refreshed agony made his heart pound and black dots swarm in front of his eyes. All of his concentration went into not fainting on top of the strange lady, so he barely heard her snap out an order to Anador, who meekly bowed his head and stepped outside.

By the time he'd returned, both of Harry's hands had been unwrapped, the woman 'tsking' the entire time at the deep burns she was revealing. His senses still reeling, the wizard didn't protest when she took the small cup Anador was holding and held it to his lips.

The liquid inside didn't taste nearly as bad as he was expecting; in fact, it was just really strong tea laced with honey and something he couldn't identify until after it made his lips and tongue go numb.

Painkiller, check, he thought sluggishly, swaying a little until the woman caught him and made him lay back on the bed. This time when she took Harry's hands to rewrap them he felt nary a twinge, a state of affairs that left him as happy as he could be with his thoughts turning to mush.

When loud voices were raised a few minutes later, the boy barely twitched until he was abruptly lifted from the bed and set on his feet. Given that he couldn't actually feel his feet, he felt understandably proud of himself that the guard helping him out of the building, while the healer protested and Anador paced them with a frown on his face, only had to half-carry Harry as they went along.

It wasn't a long walk by his normal standards, but by the time they led him into a large room where Faramir and another man with graying hair waited, Harry was more than ready to go to sleep. Of course, this was impossible, given the way the strange man was speaking to him… and then yelling… all in that weird language he'd never heard before.

It was vastly annoying. Harry wanted to sleep, and with the man yelling he wouldn't ever get the chance, unless the stranger burst a blood vessel. The man was getting redder and redder as he shouted angrily at the young wizard, until finally Harry had had enough and did something about it.

**-**

It was with a sinking feeling that Faramir noted Harry's glazed eyes as the boy almost clung to the guardsman in order to stand. Even if there hadn't been a language barrier in place, Harry wouldn't be able to answer the Steward's questions while under the influence of whatever painkiller the Healers had given him.

But Denethor saw the boy's uncomprehending silence in response to his questions only as defiance. The Steward of Gondor was the leader of the most powerful kingdom of Men in Middle Earth, and Denethor, son of Ecthelion II, wasn't at all used to being defied; he could see the man's rage growing with every unanswered question.

"Who is he?" a voice murmured over his shoulder, and Faramir turned to see his brother behind him, watching their father interrogate Harry with a frown on his face.

"We found him on the return from Pelargir," Faramir whispered back, watching as Harry closed glassy eyes and prompted an audible growl from Denethor. "…Boromir, he doesn't speak Westron…"

Boromir's frown grew, but as he stepped forward to bring that fact to their father's attention, Harry's eyes opened again and Denethor abruptly stopped yelling. The red faded from his flushed face between one heartbeat and the next, and the Steward stepped back, staring at the boy who had finally given up the fight to keep standing and collapsed senseless into the guardsman's arms.

"My lord?" Boromir ventured cautiously. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Denethor answered distractedly. He glanced with perfectly calm eyes at his two sons, and then turned back to studying Harry with a calculating air. "Boromir, take a company and scour the area where he was found. A boy his age and with those injuries would not have been alone. I want whoever his friends are found and brought to me for questioning. I _will_ know what their purpose is on Gondorian soil."

Boromir gave him a short bow and a salute. "Yes, my lord." On his way out, he laid a hand on Faramir's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly, and Faramir gave his brother a small smile. He was sorry they hadn't had a chance to talk, but there would always be time upon Boromir's return.

"Faramir," his father called, drawing the Captain's attention once again. Denethor's gaze on him was stern, but still calm. "Take the boy back to the Houses of Healing, but I'm assigning him to your care. Stay with him, find out what about him you can, and by Huron's blood, teach him to speak Westron!"

Blinking in muted astonishment, Faramir saluted, and quickly went over to take charge of the slumbering Harry. In all his life, he had never seen his father act so… strangely. It worried him.

What in the world was going on?

* * *

A/N: Working on several projects right now, and looking forward to school starting (only 20 more days!). In fact, I'm at work right now, so I can't talk long, just wanted to post something on Harry's birthday. Hope you enjoy where the story's starting to go.

Hugs to readers and reviewers alike.

* * *

31 July 2007


	4. The Boy and the Healer

**Warnings and Disclaimers: **Slight bit of goriness towards the middle.

* * *

With a touch of the bailiff's wand, the shackles they had forced him to put on before the trail clattered to the marble floor. Even though they hadn't been tight enough to really hurt, Sirius still rubbed his wrists gratefully as Pettigrew was led away by Aurors. The hubbub in the courtroom rose to a near roar, and cameras flashed endlessly to tell the wizarding world all about it in tomorrow's paper.

"Congratulations, Sirius," Dumbledore said quietly, arriving at his side. There was genuine warmth in his voice, but his eyes were still sad; a sentiment the ex-convict wholeheartedly agreed with, with the absence so achingly apparent of the person who most should have been there to see him freed.

"Has there been-?" Sirius started to ask, only to have to look away in disappointment when the other wizard shook his head.

"Nothing yet. When Harry interrupted the ritual, the unformed magic only responded to Mr. Pettigrew's wish that he be sent away. There was no clear image in his mind that we could find of the destination." Dumbledore shook his head again. "We're doing the best we can, as is Magical Law Enforcement, but the renewed interest in catching any other Death Eaters left free has kept many of the Aurors and specialists needed assigned away from Harry's case."

The wizard stiffened. "I thought they were making finding Harry their top priority?" he said, a little coil of nausea roiling in his stomach.

Dumbledore's lips thinned. "Minister Fudge believes the Boy-Who-Lived was destroyed along with his nemesis. He finds the concept very… poetic. Not least because it would mean there was no further need of either effort on his part, or expenditures of valuable Ministry resources." The last part had the air of a direct quote, and indeed Sirius could recognize their beloved Minister's particular turn of phrase in it.

A growl rumbled deep in his chest. Not if he had any say in it… Sirius looked around, scanning the courtroom. The crowd of observers was being kept back by security wizards- he could see Remus trying to argue his way past one to come see his closest friend- and he was left with a clear view of his prey…

Who was coming straight for him, a gaggle of reporters trailing behind like so many ducklings. A smile grew on the ex-convict's face that made Dumbledore frown and start to lay a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Minister," Sirius greeted, still smiling his predator's smile as he shrugged off Dumbledore's hand. He respected the older wizard greatly, but there were times when caution just wasn't the path to take. "I think we need to talk."

"Indeed we do!" the Minister replied magnanimously, beaming at him from beneath his ubiquitous bowler hat. Surreptitiously, he glanced at the reporters, as though making sure they were in position. "Mr. Black, may I take this opportunity to offer you my sincerest apologies on behalf of the Ministry?"

"If you have to," Sirius stated grudgingly.

For a brief moment Fudge's momentum faltered, but then the little wizard rallied. "Ah, um, yes. We at the Ministry are appalled by the circumstances that led to your unjustified imprisonment, and are conducting an investigation into the arresting procedures of the previous administration. And while we recognize that money could never make up for your lost time, we would like to repatriate you to the sum… of…"

Sirius' eyes were cold as they gazed at the Minister, until Fudge's words stumbled and died under their gray intensity. "You want to make up for twelve years in Azkaban, Fudge? Stop making excuses, get off your fat arse, and _find my godson_." He turned and stalked away, his robes billowing and his fists clenched at his sides as he did his level best not to punch the politician in his smarmy, sycophantic, vote-mongering nose.

The reporters, still close enough to have clearly heard every word, murmured among themselves as cameras flashed.

-

On the rare occasions when he actually focused, Harry was an astonishingly quick learner, but Faramir found getting him to that focused stage daunting indeed. Most often the boy could be found to be staring out the window during their lessons, though Faramir was never quite sure whether he was watching something in particular, or simply lost in his unfathomable thoughts.

"Harry," the Captain called out, rapping his knuckles sharply on the table. His wayward pupil jerked and twisted back around to stare at him, wide-eyed and repentant, and he sighed.

"Apology," Harry told him quietly, with a heavy accent that made him difficult for any but his tutor to understand. He lifted a bandaged wrist and absently brushed away the locks of dark hair that hung in front of his eyes, flashing for a moment the thin, oddly-shaped scar on his forehead.

Faramir sighed again. Harry's vocabulary was much larger than it had been before their intensive lessons during the three days since their arrival in Minas Tirith, but it was still fairly small. And it was likely well past time to begin teaching him the difference between the noun and verb forms.

"Again," he ordered, pointing to the items he'd gathered this morning and spread out on the table. "Belt. Scabbard. Cloak," he said, pointing to each as he said its name, and Harry echoed him, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation. They'd already covered food, furniture and basic abstract concepts the day before, and tomorrow Faramir thought he'd start on maps. Harry wouldn't understand their names for places, of course, but he might recognize physical landmarks and point them in the right direction for his homeland. Faramir had no doubt that he would be able to understand a map; when he'd shown the boy a few scrolls his reaction made it obvious he could read, if not Westron in particular.

The Captain would have loved to see what Harry's language looked like written down, but it would be quite some time before his hands were healed enough to wield a quill. He couldn't yet manage even a spoon, something that he could tell embarrassed the boy to no end whenever it came time for meals.

As though summoned by the thought, Healer Ioreth swept into the room in her robes of gray, bearing a tray with a bowl of thick stew and fresh strips of bandages. She bowed her head to Faramir, who returned the gesture and rose to relieve her of her burden.

"Thank you, milord," Ioreth said absently, her attention completely on her patient. She swept the items on the table into a pile and deposited them on the bed, gesturing for Faramir to put the tray down in their place. Next came the clean copper-plated bowl from the cabinet in the corner, which she filled with boiled water and sprinkled herbs into that helped prevent infection.

Harry grumbled unhappily, but held out his hands when the healer gestured imperiously for them. Faramir watched with the occasional twinge of sympathy as Ioreth unwrapped them, revealing swollen palms and fingers covered with skin that was an angry red and pocked with deeper wounds. All in all, though, the boy's hands looked much better than they had when they'd first found him. For one thing, Ioreth had dosed him deep into unconscious and removed the charred patches of skin with a very sharp knife. "He's healing well," the woman told him as he opened his mouth to ask. "Much better than I'd expected, to be truthful, but we can likely hold his youth responsible for that."

Faramir nodded, though she wasn't looking at him to see. "How long before he has the use of them again?"

The healer hummed thoughtfully, placing Harry's hands with care into the bowl of water. "The bandages are to stay on for another fortnight. After that, he may begin exercises to strengthen his hands again."

"But he'll be able to use them again?" It wasn't an idle question. He'd seen men injure their hands as badly as Harry had and never fully regain the mobility they had had before.

"Use? So long as nothing festers, yes. I shouldn't be surprised if there were some lingering stiffness in his fingers, however. The new skin will be very tight in the beginning, so he might have some trouble writing legibly, and if he ever played an instrument he surely won't now. When the time comes I'll give you a lotion to rub into the skin that will help, a little." She judged Harry's hands had soaked long enough and pulled them out of the basin. The boy held them out in the air to dry, squeamishly averting his gaze from his injuries.

The healer unwrapped the bundle she'd brought with her of freshly-washed bandages, laying each out on the tabletop. When he'd been a boy, Faramir had spent time learning inside the Houses of Healing, and he quickly rinsed his hands in the bowl of water and took up one of Harry's hands to bandage. "When will he be allowed outside?" he asked, frowning in thought. There were only so many things he could teach Harry about from within a single, sparsely-furnished room. If he could take him out into the city…

Ioreth gave an unladylike snort. "If it weren't so late now, I'd tell you to take him with you when you leave. There's nothing wrong with him that would keep him from walking about, so long as you don't go far, and keeping a youngster like that locked in a room all day helps their healing not at all."

"Tomorrow, then," Faramir said, pleased. In all honesty, he'd be more than happy to get out of this room himself. Showing Harry the wonders of Minas Tirith would do nicely to get them both some fresh air.

-

Finding the place where his brother had discovered the boy wasn't difficult. The tall grass along the path Faramir had described, where it seemed Harry had been thrown and rolled, was not only still bent, but dry and brown as well. A second line of dead grass led away from the trail, straight as an arrow-shot into the northwest horizon.

None of it was burnt, though, as where Harry had landed was. And even if the grasses had been charred, fire didn't travel through pasture in a straight line; it wove back and forth, following the wind. At the near end there was nothing that offered an explanation, only a few traces of blood on the dry blades of grass showing where the boy had been found.

The Warden ordered two men to follow it as far as they could, two experienced guards he knew to be excellent trackers. With that taken care of, he split his company into patrols and assigned to each a swath of the land nearby. A boy injured as Harry had been couldn't have traveled far from his group, and with a boy his age missing Boromir doubted such a group would have moved any great distance in the intervening days.

Now he just needed to find them, so they could answer his father's questions.

* * *

A/N: First, a couple of medical notes. Technically the skin on Harry's hands was too damaged to regenerate without skin grafts, and severe burns can put you in the hospital, too weak to walk, for weeks. I know this because one of my second cousins is currently in the hospital right now after his blowtorch blew up on him, and his injuries are very similar to Harry's. If I were superstitious, this would worry me. As for why these two points don't apply in this case, blame Harry's magic.

And my other note: my muses have taken up bunny breeding rather than raising. It's not that I don't have the time to write, rather that I sit and stare at a mostly-blank page. Regardless, I have about half a chapter written for _Moonshine Glories_, and will make finishing that my next goal.

Cookies and milk to all reviewers!

* * *

2 October 2007


	5. The Boy and the Summons

**Warnings and Disclaimers:** The plot finally begins to move. I will be picking and choosing from both the books and the movies, so don't be surprised by any details that don't seem kosher. Oh, and Haedulin is random Sindarin.

* * *

It had flown for a long time, but the journey was nearly over.

This was a very good thing, because the pigeon was on its last wings, however literally. Though the Haedulin breed of homing pigeon had been especially bred for speed and endurance, its current flight was a test of its abilities that it was very close to failing. The message it bore was far too important to lose- indeed, two other birds had been sent out with copies of the message, but both had already fallen behind, one to exhaustion and the other to a hungry hawk's talons.

There wasn't much further to go, indeed. The great white walls of its destination were in sight, and a last, desperate burst of energy quickened its wings. On it flew, over the gardens and weaving through towers until it fluttered through a high window into the Tower Hall.

Steward Denethor stared down at the Elvish bird expiring on top of his plate with more than a bit of shock, and finally reached for the message capsule wrapped around its leg.

-

Minas Tirith was… both utterly wonderful and incredibly disappointing, Harry had decided. On the one hand, it was like stepping into a fairytale. Well, stepping into another one. His first sight of Hogwarts had well and done for his first real-life fairy tale. But everything from the well-worn cobblestones beneath his feet, to the thatched roofs of the homes and markets they passed, to the gleaming towers piercing the sky far overhead, screamed that he'd gone from the nightmare of Voldemort's rebirth off to the land Far, Far Away. Only a few years ago, he'd have given anything to catch even a glimpse of a place like this.

But on the gripping hand, it was all undeniably… primitive. Harry hadn't spotted a bit of technology that wasn't straight out of the Middle Ages. He'd known it was unlikely to find any, given what he'd seen of his hosts, but there'd still been that little hope that hiding around the next corner was a call-box he could use to contact someone, anyone. Even the Dursleys. Seeing Uncle Vernon's mottled red face would be a godsend right now.

A hand pulling him aside out of the path of a man on horseback brought Harry out of his thoughts. The wizard muttered a self-conscious thanks, blushing, and Faramir raised an eyebrow pointedly until Harry repeated it, even more awkwardly, in Westron.

The older man nodded his acceptance and started forward again, though this time he kept his hand on Harry's shoulder. Occasionally he would stop and point out an item of interest and spout off a word or phrase, and then wait patiently until the boy had repeated it to his satisfaction.

Faramir confused Harry terribly. It had been obvious that he was in charge of the party that had found Harry, and everyone treated him as though he were someone important; several times during their morning excursion the people they passed had nodded respectfully towards his guide, or even bowed. Why, then, was someone the wizard was beginning to suspect had 'Lord' or the equivalent in front of his name spending so much of his valuable time on a boy he didn't know and who had no language in common?

He thought perhaps it wasn't Faramir's choice; there had been a resigned air about him when he first started keeping Harry company. Harry didn't recall much of the events around his arrival in Minas Tirith, but whenever he tried he could barely remember a grim-faced man on a throne, who was accompanied by loud noises and the unshakeable feeling that he, Harry, had done something stupid.

At least Faramir didn't seem to mind as much now spending time with him. Not that he wasn't often annoyed with the young wizard, but as the hours passed in his company the man was really starting to remind Harry of a younger, less worn and more confident Remus. That might have been because Harry didn't know much more about him than that he was a really patient teacher, and Remus was the only one of those he'd had since primary school.

He was looking after Harry like Sirius did, though. Whenever the boy felt tired Faramir would firmly sit him down on whatever was available and force him to drink lukewarm water or some kind of sweet fruit juice from the leather skins he carried on his belt. He'd even hand-fed Harry a piece of cheese and a few chunks of bread, to his absolute mortification. Harry had thought it was bad enough having other people feed him in their version of the Hospital Wing- out in the middle of a busy street where complete strangers could watch was a whole order of magnitude worse.

It was during one such stop that the sharp sounds of hoof beats reached their ears, a surprise given the relative scarcity of riders within the city. Faramir rose to greet the guardsman who rode towards them, pushing firmly on Harry's shoulder to keep him seated. They conversed quietly for a minute, and then the man was dismounting and handing the reins to Faramir.

The lord gestured towards Harry, giving the guardsman orders in that weird language that sounded a little like the Italian one of the Slytherins in his year spoke, but only a little, and nothing at all like any of the other languages the wizard had ever heard before. Harry stared at him. Surely Faramir wasn't leaving him here? Alone? Well, with the guardsman, yeah, but Harry didn't even know the man's name…

Faramir mounted the horse, making it look as easy as getting out of bed, and nudged it into a canter before he'd as much as settled himself. "Wait," Harry protested, but he doubted anyone but himself heard over the din of the horse's hooves on the stone walkway.

Harry and the guardsman traded uncertain stares as the sounds faded into the distance. After a moment, the man offered his hand with a comment that the young wizard didn't catch a single word of, but understood anyway. He didn't need help standing! He wasn't that much of an invalid.

Harry made it to his feet. Barely. He kept that triumph firmly in mind when he needed the man's help to stay on them.

-

There was a frown etched deeply into his face as the Steward listened to the scout report the day's findings. That in itself wasn't enough to concern Faramir, given that it was the expression most commonly seen on his father's face, but in combination with the urgent summons it sent a twist of worry curling through his gut. The scout bore the colors of the company Boromir had taken with him…

"Milord?" he ventured cautiously, as the scout wound down to silence. "You sent for me?"

Denethor's expression could only be called a scowl, now, as he dismissed the scout with a wave of his hand. "The Elves at Rivendell have called for a Council of Races, to be held in three months' time. The bird was long on its flight, and unless we intend to relinquish our seat on the Council, our emissary must leave as quickly as we can send him."

Faramir began immediately to speak, to volunteer- he had heard many tales of the Elven cities, and wished dearly to see one- and then paused. His father would not wish himself and Gondor to be represented by his younger, lesser son. "Boromir-" he began, resigned, only to be interrupted.

"Boromir," Denethor said sternly, "continues to search in the south for our uninvited guests. I am informed that he has discovered a trail of sorts, and has split his company to follow it. He is too far to reach, even by the fastest horse, to hope that he might return and then reach the Elves in time." His lips tightened unpleasantly. "You must go in his stead."

Stunned but delighted beyond measure, Faramir could only bow, his fist held tight to his heart. "Choose twenty men to take with you," the Steward continued. "The lands between Gondor and Rivendell have been unsettled as of late. You will leave at dawn tomorrow."

He glanced downward, and taking that as his cue to leave and begin preparations, the Captain turned away. His father's voice halted him in his tracks. "Faramir…"

Denethor was staring, not at him, but towards the great doors that gave entrance to the hall. "When you leave, you will be taking the boy with you. I have no doubt that that great buzzard of a wizard you're so fond of will be attending the Council; it has the feel of him writ large on it. You will take the boy to him."

Harry? But why? Faramir didn't doubt that Gandalf would find the lad interesting, but his father had always proclaimed a deep distrust of the wizard. He could hardly comprehend Denethor suddenly wanting to consult with him over anything, let alone a boy only halfway to manhood. Bewildered, and feeling the return of the concern that had plagued him upon his entrance, Faramir bowed once again. "As you wish, milord."

-

The Great Hall was filled with the buzz of quiet murmurs. No one voice was loud enough to pick out, or loud at all, even. The night of the Third Task had been filled with shouts and general clamor, but since then the students of Hogwarts had been unnervingly subdued. Two of their own were missing from the Hall; the funeral for one had been only a couple of days before, and the other was missing with no clues as to his whereabouts.

The normal hubbub was further curbed by the presence at the head table of the man who had been the wizarding world's bogeyman for the last two years: Sirius Black. The ex-convict was just this side of cadaverously thin, but he was clean-shaven and his long dark hair was brushed and pulled back at the base of his neck as befitted the head of the House of Black. Everyone knew he was staying in the castle, but this was the first time he'd mingled openly with the students. Despite the way the students stared, though, Black kept his eyes on his plate, cleaning it with steady, mechanical movements that left those watching with the impression he hadn't tasted a single bite.

There were only two students not openly staring at the man, though only because they were busy poring over the evening's newspaper. The Daily Prophet had been issuing two editions a day since the night the Tournament ended, the usual morning edition and another that arrived just before dinnertime. The headlines were always about Harry, or about Voldemort (quite a few people were beginning to, with much stuttering, say his name- he'd been soundly defeated, after all, this time with a corpse to bury), or speculations about what had happened to the former. Sirius' demand to the Minister had been front-page news for two days, and the wizarding world rallied around him, demanding their savior back.

But nothing had yet come of it. The speculations remained speculations, offering as little hope as they did factual information about their friend's disappearance. That didn't stop Ron and Hermione from reading every single article, though.

They wanted Harry back. Things like this weren't supposed to happen; hadn't Harry realized yet that it was the three of them against the world? They might have forgotten that themselves, at a point or two along the way, but that had only made them more determined than ever to stand by him.

Except… when the crunch had come, and Harry had faced the worst monster of their world, he'd been alone. Alone in a dark graveyard, but for his enemies and the body of a student just like themselves. They hadn't been there with him.

They knew it wasn't their fault. The adults had told them so, many times during the last week, but that didn't help the guilt they felt. Neither did the guilt in the faces of those adults. So they pored over every article, debated every possibility, and huddled together in front of the common room fireplace whenever the gap in their trio hurt too much.

* * *

A/N: Just as a note, I'm not particularly happy about the last scene, but I promised I'd get this out today… And I know some of you won't be happy about the turn the chapter has taken, not wanting Harry to get involved with the Fellowship and rehash the books/movies yet again, but I will be changing quite a few things so you might want to stick around.

Incidentally, this bunny was created when I wondered to my sister what LotR would have been like with Faramir along instead of Boromir. She wanted me to write it, but I knew next to nothing about LotR, so Harry was thrown in as a point of familiarity.

My special pumpkin chocolate chip cookies to all past and future reviewers!

* * *

6 December 2007


	6. The Boy and the Beginning

_**Warnings and Disclaimers:**_ Usage of narcotics, and goriness in the last scene.

* * *

Harry stared up at the saddle with a feeling of immense dread. They wanted him to ride… that? Alone? Never the tallest boy in his year, he felt even more dwarfed by the way he could only just peek over the lowest point of the horse's back; this despite the fact that his was easily the smallest horse in the company. More than once he'd seen the guardsmen look his way and smile, mouthing words to each other that he was sure contained the word 'pony' somewhere in them.

Not that the horse had really done anything to earn his anxiety. It didn't have Buckbeak's ripping claws or cruel beak, and the placid look on its long face left Harry doubtful it would ever get more than a foot off the ground even under the most extreme circumstances. It was just… there. And big. And they wanted him to ride it, when he couldn't even get up onto it without help.

-

For all that they were unable to speak each other's languages, Faramir reflected, the look on Harry's face needed no translating. Firmly keeping any hint of a smile from his own expression as he watched the boy stare at the horse assigned to him, the Captain leaned over to his second, Anador, and murmured a few instructions. The man saluted, fist over heart, and dismounted.

"Milord," he heard, and turned to look at the speaker. A guardsman stood beside Larsk, holding out a package wrapped in oilskin. "My lord the Steward bids you give over this letter to Gandalf the Grey once you've reached Rivendell."

Though he was surprised, Faramir didn't ask questions as he reached out to take the package. If he was meant to know, undoubtedly his old friend Gandalf would enlighten him at the end of their journey. The captain tucked it into his saddlebag and glanced back behind him as he heard a yelp, to see that Anador had indeed picked Harry up and dropped him into the saddle as ordered. It didn't appear to even have been that difficult. The child was really too small for his age; if numbers hadn't been one of the first things established, and age one of the first questions asked, Faramir would have placed him at twelve, not nearly fifteen years of age.

Harry must have seen Faramir watching him and guessed where the orders came from, since the boy sent a glower his way. Suppressing another smile, the captain turned himself about. "Company, mount!" he called out, and the few stragglers among the guardsmen leapt onto their horses.

"Move out!"

-

They rode hard those first few days, while their horses could still take it- Faramir knew it was hard on the boy, who had obviously never ridden a horse before coming into their company, but it couldn't be helped. He did what he could by boiling a mixture of poppy sap and other herbs as a tonic every night when they made camp, force-feeding the unpleasant-tasting drink to Harry when necessary. The boy needed his sleep, and the tonic numbed the aches of the journey and the lingering pain of his burns enough for him to do so. Even so, Faramir only dared give it to him for a day or two more. It was only prudent to keep some back, should disaster befall the company and leave them with wounded; and besides, it wasn't safe to give any poppy-sap concoction to a man for too long. He came to crave it, and would even fall sick without it.

It was while preparing the tonic, nearly a week after leaving Minas Tirith, that Faramir finally recalled the stick that he'd found with Harry, and almost absent-mindedly packed along with his supplies. It was more than just a stick, of course, given the painstaking carving that must have gone into it, and he wouldn't be surprised if the boy wanted it back.

He carried it with him as he brought the tonic over to his young charge, who grimaced at the sight of it. "I assure you, lad, there are many worse things you could be having to drink," Faramir told him with some amusement. "Many of which Healer Ioreth enjoys giving to her patients. Be thankful she could not accompany us."

Harry's understanding of Westron was improving in fits and starts, but the captain's words were still beyond his comprehension. Nevertheless, the boy seemed to gather the gist of it, and his scowl deepened. Faramir snorted in amusement and pressed the cup into his hand anyway. While Harry was distracted by the cup, he pulled the pale stick from within his shirt, and held it out to the boy. "I believe this belongs to you."

Harry looked up and let out a cry, clumsily snatching the stick from his fingers almost before Faramir could blink. Then the boy's face crumbled in almost palpable disappointment as he studied the stick more closely. Concerned, Faramir reached out to touch his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

The boy glanced at him, then back at the stick, still looking as though he had lost his fondest companion. Then he set the cup with its noxious brew to the side, and gestured between himself and the stick. "What word?" he asked, one of his most-used questions.

The captain frowned at him, trying to figure out what he was referring to. Harry continued gesturing between himself and the stick, then changed briefly to between Faramir and the stick.

Ah. Possessives. "Mine," Faramir said, as Harry gestured to himself. The boy then pointed towards the Gondorian instead. "Yours." Harry looked around, then pointed between the stick and one of the guardsmen on watch. "His."

The boy nodded sadly. "His," he said in reply, dropping the stick into his lap.

"Voldemort."

-

Harry sighed as Faramir rose and went to speak to one of the guards. Of course it couldn't be that simple. No, not his wand, it had to be _Voldemort's_!

He couldn't resist touching it, though, as it rested almost innocently in his lap, and again the wizard felt the same rush that he had always associated with holding his own wand. _"It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather--just one other,"_ Harry remembered Ollivander saying. _"It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother--why, its brother gave you that scar."_

Brother wands. That had to be it, why touching Voldemort's wand felt so much like touching his own. It didn't seem right, that it should feel the same, having been used to hurt and kill so many- shouldn't the power feel darker, more evil? Hurt him to feel, even?

_"There is no good or evil, only power…"_

Harry shook his head to send away the memory. No, Voldemort was evil all right, no matter what he claimed. But his wand… Brother wands.

Maybe his wand would work for Harry?

Before he could talk himself out of it, the wizard wrapped his hand around the wand. The rush came again, though not as strong as before, and Harry looked around for ideas. He couldn't try anything flashy- he had no idea how Faramir and the others would react to magic. But at the same time it had to be obvious that it had worked…

Shifting reminded him of the bedroll he was sitting on, and woke up every morning stiff and sore on. A cushioning charm, maybe? They'd learned that just after the First Task… Harry discretely touched the tip of the wand to the bedroll and murmured the incantation.

He shifted again, and carefully pressed his hand against it. There was a twinge from the burns, but it didn't feel any softer to him… Not that he'd been any great shakes at the charm to begin with. Something else? "_Accio_ rock," he muttered under his breath, pointing the tip of the wand towards a pebble not half a meter from him.

It didn't even twitch. "Figures…" the wizard muttered. Just once, couldn't things have gone his way? With another sigh, he tucked the wand away in with his things. A part of him wanted to snap it, just on general principles, but Voldemort was dead, and it might, maybe, still come in handy.

Harry snorted at his wishful thinking. Right, like he could be that lucky. He picked up his cup again, a sturdy little wooden piece filled with, despite the surliness he'd shown Faramir, one of the admittedly least noxious potions he'd ever had to drink. It still wasn't pleasant, but it was nothing on the order of Skelegro or Polyjuice. And it helped him sleep, something that was hard, between the pain and his memories of the Third Task.

His thoughts tried to drift yet again towards wondering what was happening back home, and the boy quickly held his nose and downed the potion.

When Faramir returned for his cup, not even ten minutes later, Harry was sound asleep.

-

The room wasn't a very large room, for all that it held the four living most powerful (magically or politically) wizards in England, as well as one former Azkaban inmate who could rival the weakest of them in strength when in the proper frame of mind. Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge discussed matters quietly with Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and holder of the Order of Merlin, First Class, patiently tried to coax Sirius Black into halting his pacing and taking a nice cup of tea. And in the corner sat a small grey man whom most of the Ministry didn't even know existed, calmly putting his papers into order.

"Shall we start, sirs, ma'am?" he finally said, glancing up at the others. Conversation immediately ceased, with every eye in the room locking on his own.

"Please, Mr. Augur," Dumbledore said with a nod. He firmly grasped Sirius by the sleeve of his robes and pulled him down into the next seat over. Minister Fudge and Madam Bones quickly found seats of their own.

The unofficial Head of the Unspeakables (for how could a department that didn't officially exist have an official Head?) coughed into his fist and rose. "First, I'd like to thank Madam Bones for the use of the Aurors she has loaned our department." He nodded to her, and the witch gave him a curt nod in return. "Their aid has been invaluable, but will no longer be required."

Sirius tried to surge out of his seat, only for Albus to pull him back down again. "You've found him?" he demanded, only sparing the Headmaster a brief, irritated glance.

"No," Augur replied, his attention seemingly on the papers he was shuffling in his hands. "We haven't found a single trace of him anywhere on the planet."

It was a moment before that sank in, and then Sirius was up again, this time trying to lunge at the Unspeakable. "You're giving up?!"

With a great deal of effort, Albus grabbed him and pulled him back down again, this time pulling out his wand and applying a Sticking Charm to the chair. "He said nothing of the sort, Sirius," the wizard chided him. "I trust you have an explanation, Mr. Augur?"

Augur bowed his head. "Indeed. Mr. Potter is nowhere on Earth. However, the trail left by the wild magic that resulted from the interrupted ritual clearly leads _somewhere_, rather than ending. That means that the boy was transported either to another planet, in which case his survival is unlikely, or interdimensionally. If it's the latter case, we literally have no idea where he ended up. Either way, searching for him is now in the hands of our researchers, not in those of wizards on the ground." He gave Minister Fudge a tiny bow. "Assuming, of course, that the Minister continues to authorize our funding for this project…?"

The portly little wizard looked torn, glancing several times at the serenely smiling Dumbledore and the glowering Black next to him. "Are…" he paused to clear his throat. "Are you quite sure you'll be able to find him?"

Augur gave the tiniest of nods. "I have the utmost confidence in my researchers. It may take some time as we exhaust all possibilities, but I'm positive we can find where Mr. Potter went. Following him there may be a different matter, however."

Fudge glanced around the room again, trying to gage how the others felt. Amelia Bones would reluctantly support him, so long as it didn't put the public in danger, and Dumbledore he might be able to argue down. But Black… Fudge suspected that if he ordered the Unspeakables to stop looking for the man's godson, Black would in short order be back on his way to Azkaban, this time for Fudge's murder. An entirely unreasonable man, Black was.

With a quiet sigh, Fudge resigned himself to having to spend quite a lot of the Ministry's money on funding this wild diricawl chase, rather than fear for his life. If nothing else, at least it would be great publicity for the magnanimity of the Ministry and perhaps win back some of the public support it had lost when Voldemort's return and death, and Potter's subsequent disappearance, had been announced. Fudge would have to make sure to drop a hint of the meeting's proceedings in the right ears.

"You have the Ministry's support, Mr. Augur," he finally said. "Find the boy."

-

The burned trail had run straight as an arrow ever since they left Lord Boromir's company- it ignored even streams, ridges and trees, the last dying or just beginning to die that were unfortunate enough to be in its way. After a time and especially while crossing the White Mountains, the scouts had given up on following it exactly, instead finding the quickest, easiest path in that general direction and crisscrossing the trail every hour or so. It never varied, and they seemed to be catching up to whatever was leaving the path of death and destruction; the longer and harder that they pressed on, the less advanced was the death of the foliage.

Odimer called the other scout to a halt with a raised fist as they came to a ridgeline overlooking a vast plain. From his horse, he could see the trail continue towards the forest on the far edge of the plain, only to abruptly halt not quite halfway there. The scout laid his hand on the hilt of his sword as he frantically scanned the plain for any sight of whomever or whatever they had been pursuing. Nothing… there was nothing!

"Fall back," he ordered tersely, already beginning to turn his horse. "We'll circle around-"

It was then that he was struck from below, toppling off of the horse and landing heavily on his side. The air was driven out of him, yet he still had the presence of mind to draw his sword, even as he heard Balinor yell as he was attacked in turn. Odimer struggle to his feet, trying to gasp in air and stumbled towards the other man.

He never made it. There was came a burning, tearing sensation through his middle, and the sword fell to the ground as he collapsed to his knees in agony. Odimer's breath gurgled in his lungs, and he looked down to see the leather vest that had covered his chest had been eaten away, and the flesh beneath it was deeply charred- so deeply that he thought that might be the curve of his stomach...

Black spots overwhelmed his vision for a moment, and when the scout came to, he found himself lying on the ground, his face turned towards the plains. It must have known they were following and backtracked, he realized, lying in wait just below the ridgeline until they came upon it. The plants along its new trail were already dying, so they had no warning…

Out of sight, for Odimer had no strength to turn his head, Balinor's scream faded and died, and he knew the other scout was dead. Movement in the corner of his eye caught his painful attention, and to his astonishment what seemed to be a cloud of smoke- though it seemed to him to be far fouler than smoke could ever be- drifted back to the burnt pathway, again making its way towards the forest.

The pain was fading as Odimer followed the smoke with his eyes, until he lost it in the shadows of the trees. He was dying, he knew. Dying without either of them surviving to warn Lord Boromir of the danger. It wasn't yet nightfall, but the light seemed to be fading. Odimer's last thought was that at least they had been well out of Gondorian lands, on the border of Rohan, even, before they caught up with the smoke. He could just see the enormous stone tower in the distance, poking up over the trees…

Yes, at least Isengard was well away from Gondor.

* * *

A/N: And thus ends the last setup chapter, so you know where all the players are on the board. After this the main focus will be on Harry and the Fellowship. I'm trying to lengthen my chapter length. Is this better? And I have a question for all of you- how much of the journey to Rivendell do you want to see? It takes them 112 days to get there, after all, and very little of interest will occur on the way. Would you be satisfied with only a few scenes and perhaps the occasional flashback? (Please please say yes, so I can have them get to Rivendell next chapter.) And don't count Voldemort's wand out quite yet…

I know I said I'd try and write more after school let out, but things in real life haven't allowed for it. We buried my godfather yesterday- he was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer last fall, and this past month deteriorated far too quickly. Probably part of the reason I got this done so quickly- there were only a thousand or so words of it written until four days ago- is trying to keep my mind off the hole that's suddenly there.

_The Boy and the Ring_ has been removed from the renewed poll, and _The Power of the Grave_ reinstated.

31 May 2008


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